A week later and many arduous miles from Lhasa in a remote valley the locals called the “Womb of the Great Mother”, I finally found the real Shangri-La that I had been questing for, which was to know my true place in the nature of things. In preparation for the pilgrimage, I had written my intentions for the journey in my journal. Chief among my intentions was to “look into the eyes and the faces of the people I meet” and to “be aware of the doors that will open”.

On the morning of the full moon of Sagadawa (the sacred month of May which is the Buddha’s birth month), we ate an early breakfast in our idyllic campsite at 13,000 feet above sea level, surrounded by the sounds of birds, goats bleating, and bees buzzing amongst the fragrant flowering bushes. The sun was just beginning to illuminate the rim at the top of the valley as we started our three-hour, thousand foot trek up a steep and dusty path to the monastery. On the path winding past ancient and still occupied meditation caves and hermitages clinging to the side of the mountain, Tibetans from the village below overtook us, greeting us warmly and offering words of encouragement along with the occasional chunk of dried goat cheese for much-needed energy. I began to lag behind the others, suffering from the effects of the altitude and dehydration. Finally reaching the monastery, I collapsed in the shade weeping from exhaustion.

A crowd of Tibetan women immediately clustered around me, murmuring, praying, patting my arms and stroking my forehead. A Tibetan nun appeared with the ubiquitous yak butter tea and a much more rare, and therefore more precious, aspirin for my headache. I started to laugh through my tears, and they all laughed too, while continuing to comfort me and smile into my eyes. I was at that moment, though thousands of miles from home amongst complete strangers, more at home than I had ever been; and all, magically, without exchanging a single word. I was pervaded by a sense of deep peace. “So”, I thought, “This is heaven on earth—accepting all the hardships as well as the blessings, the joy along with the pain. So”, I rejoiced, “This is my true place in the nature of things--at home everywhere and always among friends”.

The Tibetans know this instinctually, having thrived for centuries in the harshest of environments with resilience, grace and joy. “My religion is kindness,” the Dalai Lama is fond of saying, and the Tibetan people I met embodied this. Though impoverished and sorely lacking in even basic medical care and education, the Tibetans we encountered did not beg money from us but instead often offered us what little tsampa (barley flour dough) they had. We, in turn, reached into our own hearts and wallets, raising money to bring clean running water to the monastery where we stayed in Zangri, to provide medical care for a nun suffering from leprosy, and surgery for a young man with a congenital leg deformity. In one remote village we pooled all our soaps, unused toothbrushes, lotions and over-the-counter drugs and supplies for an impromptu hygiene and medical clinic for the 50 villagers who showed up at our campsite. It was the least we could do for all the blessings, kindness, and insights we had experienced in their magical country.

Now, back “home” in the United States, the pilgrimage continues as I begin to integrate the “changed me” into my old life. Regaling my friends with the details of the hardships endured, including the outdoor toilets lacking privacy and running water, some of them react incredulously: “Why would you do something so hard? I could never do that!” I answer with what I used to say to the women in my cancer support group: “We should live even our wildest dreams while we can.” I seem to have taken my own advice to heart.

Arriving in Lhasa, the capital of Tibet, was breathtaking not only because the rarefied atmosphere at 12,000 feet above sea level kept us gasping for oxygen, but also because the vast 360-degree views were stunning: hilltop monasteries glittering in the brilliant sun; brightly hued prayer flags radiating mantras of peace with every breeze; mountains rising in the distance deep purple and snow capped; and threading through it all, the azure beauty of a tributary of the mighty and legendary Tsangpo River.

Lhasa literally means “place of the gods” though, sadly, under Chinese occupation it looks and feels more like a tourist attraction. Ethnic Chinese now outnumber Tibetans in the capital city and the Chinese government has relegated Tibetan merchants to one market near a temple surrounded by hotels for tourists. Even the magnificent and massive former residence of the Dalai Lama, the Potola Palace, which mercifully was spared the destruction meted out to 90% of the Tibetan monasteries during the Cultural Revolution, felt like a mummified museum housing the artifacts of a once vibrant and flourishing culture. One Tibetan teacher we met told us, shaking his head, that he was not sure Buddhism would be able to survive in Tibet. Indeed throughout our Tibetan journey we visited monasteries that were in disrepair and rarely used, and met young men who had given up being monks because of political and economic harassment.

Despite this, I sensed as I gazed at the snow-encrusted splendor of the Himalayas against the vast blue luminosity of the sky, that my true pilgrimage was just beginning. Here was the landscape of my childhood dreams, my longed-for Shangri-La where the sacred geography of physical and spiritual worlds overlap. “I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore,” I thought with a strange mixture of fear and curiosity at what lay ahead.

Pilgrimage, according to the Dalai Lama, is an outer journey reflecting an inner process that moves from “materialistic preoccupations to a deep internal sense of the interconnectedness of all life”. It is not an escape an escape from the world but rather a way to enter the world more deeply. And it is said in Tibet that the more remote and inaccessible the bayul (metaphorical “hidden-lands” that are the destination for the pilgrim), the more luminous the paradise on earth it contains. I was soon to experience the truth of these sayings.

At any moment of the day, it would appear that all 1.9 million people living in Kathmandu were on the streets at the same time given the level of bicycle, motorcycle, rickshaw, cart and bus traffic careening along the lane-less roads. Honking seemed to be the national pastime, engaged in freely while passing other vehicles, being passed by other vehicles, and swerving to avoid the mass of pedestrians and even cows crossing the roads. And to make matters even more unnerving, vehicles in Nepal are driven on the left side of the road (a remnant of British rule) at break neck speed. Surprisingly and blessedly, there was no evidence of any road rage even in the frequent and massive traffic jams caused by Maoist street demonstrations or the general strikes called by political coalition groups. The residents of Kathmandu seemed to take this chaotic life in stride with grace and humor.

Because of the warm weather, crowding (an average of 42,000 people per square mile) and cultural traditions, the Nepalese lead a more “public” and outdoor life than in the West. We witnessed open-air barbershops under shade trees by the side of the road, public laundry and bathing in town squares, and people taking noonday naps sprawled in the sun on grassy highway medians. The only concession the residents seemed to make as they went about their daily business clad in brightly colored saris and other traditional clothing was to wear facemasks against the heavily polluted air. According to our guide, the pollution is a result of the valley’s natural air inversion effect but also, because of the lack of strict emission controls, many people add cheap kerosene to the higher-priced gas they burn in their vehicles.

So, as happy as we were to have spent time in the vibrant valley of Kathmandu, it was almost quite literally a breath of fresh air to finally be heading to the wide-open skies at the roof of the world—Tibet.

Despite the brevity of our daily, early-morning walk to the stupa to practice, we would always arrive surrounded by a throng of children, softly but insistently asking for money. Dealing with begging and all the issues it evoked in us (such as our feelings about being privileged Westerners and the raw emotions caused by being face-to-face with the suffering of poverty) would be one of the consistent themes of our travels. We quickly realized that; a) saying no-- no matter how many times or how nicely or how emphatically-- was not effective; b) trying to ignore the kids by not making eye contact was not only ineffective but also felt bad; and, c) giving even a small amount of money to the kids very quickly attracted more kids with fever pitched expectations. So we resorted to more creative and, hopefully, compassionate measures. One fellow traveler gave the kids Polaroid pictures she took of them; another gave out candies and decorative ballpoint pens. My office mate, Beth, engaged the kids in English lessons and the singing of pop tunes. And irrepressible Krissy, a dancer from San Francisco, carried a wad of Nepali rupees worth only pennies each and flung them in the air as she twirled and danced for the delighted children.

Once we arrived at the stupa for our morning practice, all the begging stopped. As Buddhist practitioners, we were not the typical tourists the locals were used to seeing. We were still a curiosity -- a large group of Westerners meditating and chanting in Tibetan -- but we also gained their respect because of our knowledge of Buddhism. Nepal and Tibet have cultures historically steeped in religious devotion, as is true in much of Asia, so much so that there is scant separation between religious practice and daily activities.

Surrounding the Bodnath Stupa was a vibrant warren of streets, cafes and shops. One of our favorite haunts was the rooftop at the Stupa View Café where, eye level with the Buddha eyes painted on the stupa, we ate curry and drank Lhasa beer in the waning light, listening to the hum of evening chants from the streets and temples below. Our days in Kathmandu were filled with visiting monasteries and various teachers, chief among them being Lama Wangdu. Several times we took the short walk to Lama Wangdu’s compound where monks as young as five years old greeted us curiously as we were ushered into the lama’s private quarters above the temple. In a contrast of cultures we were to see very often on our trip, Lama Wangdu’s teenaged granddaughter served us cold drinks—Fanta and Coke--while talking on her cell phone. Tibetan lamas are known for their magnanimous personalities, giving long teachings with warmth and generosity. But Lama Wangdu exceeded our expectations, teaching for four hours at a stretch and giving us each a big bear hug at the end of every session. We started affectionately calling him “Lama Huggy Bear.”

Kathmandu (May 21- 25, 2007)
Our home base for the first five days of our journey was the Sechen Guest House, a two-story, 25-room structure located on the grounds of the Sechen Monastery in an old section of Kathmandu. We settled into our $6/night accommodations pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness of the rooms and the private bathrooms with hot (most of the time) showers. Each room, though lacking a fan to ameliorate the effects of heat and humidity, had passably functional screens on the windows and electricity, as well as candles for the numerous occasions when electric service was interrupted. The typical Asian mattress, we were to find out that evening, was more akin to a hard board than the pillow-top varieties in the States. But in the honeymoon rush of actually being in Kathmandu, we overlooked the lack of amenities as “quaint” or even romantic. This would change as the trip progressed but for the time being I, at least, was ecstatic.

The famous Bodnath Stupa, with its all-watchful Buddha eyes painted to face in the four directions, was a mere 3-minute walk from the Sechen Guest House on bustling dirt alleys lined with small fruit markets and stores selling Tibetan and Nepali handicrafts. A “stupa” in Buddhist Asia is a traditional structure--round with a spire on top--, which represents the connection between earth and sky and is a symbol of enlightenment. The Bodnath Stupa is ancient (1000 years old by many accounts) and massive (the diameter of a football field at its base). It soon became the heart and soul of our stay in Kathmandu. Whenever the opportunity arose we made quick trips to join the constant mass of humanity -- including Tibetan Buddhists, Nepali Hindus, school children, people begging, tourists and Western pilgrims – circumambulating the base of the stupa in a clockwise motion. The hundreds of brass prayer wheels embedded in the outside wall of the stupa were carved with the mantra (prayer) of compassion “Om mane padme hum” and had been worn to a bright patina by the touch of countless hands. To show respect, many of us adopted the Tibetan custom of carrying our prayer beads in our left hand, counting off prayers as we walked around the stupa, while turning the prayer wheels with our right hand.

Some things are meant to be. My recent trip to Nepal and Tibet falls into that category, as well as the categories of “once-in-a-lifetime”, “dream-come-true”, and “too-good-to-be-true”. Actually, the trip ultimately defied categories altogether; but more about that later.

Winter Solstice Sunrise at Tara Mandala

I had dreamed of going to the Himalayas since I was 12 years old, an unlikely aspiration for a girl growing up in suburban Dallas in the 1950s. My maternal grandparents managed a summer camp near Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado, and rather than loll around the public pool in the sweltering Texas heat, I spent every summer in the cool high mountains of Colorado, hiking, riding my cousin’s horses, and attending camp. I looked forward to my annual summer pilgrimage to the mountains all year long. It felt like my salvation, my own private Shangri-la, to escape to the mountains from the suffocating confines of school and a dysfunctional nuclear-family life. The summer I was 12, I climbed my first mountain over 14,000 feet. And I was hooked. I voraciously read books from the library about the Himalayas, and settled on Nepal as my ultimate destination to visit in the world. It was not until some years later that I even learned about a place called Tibet, because all the maps after the Chinese invasion of Tibet in 1959 listed the region as China.

So, here I was more than four decades after my original Himalayan dream was born, passport in hand, walking across the tarmac towards the Kathmandu airport in Nepal. It still seemed like a dream; but the hazy terraced fields in the distance, the steamy heat, the cacophonous traffic, and the colorful clothing of the Nepali people were all viscerally real. How did this Himalayan dream of mine come full circle to reality? As a middle-aged massage therapist, meditation instructor and counselor, I seemed an unlikely world traveler.

Early in my life, my fascination with things “Eastern” led me to a steadfast meditation practice: Transcendental Meditation in the 60s (along with every other “boomer” it seemed, including the Beatles) and eventually to the study and practice of Tibetan Buddhism in the 80s. In 2005, I started living and working at Tara Mandala, a Buddhist retreat center in Southern Colorado (www.taramandala.org). The founder of Tara Mandala and author of Women of Wisdom, Tsultrim Allione, organized the trip to commemorate the fortieth anniversary of her introduction to Tibetan Buddhism in Nepal, where in 1967 at the age of 19, she became one of the first Western women to be ordained as a Buddhist nun. Our tour guide serendipitously would be Jerome Edou, a long-time Buddhist practitioner and author of Machig Labdron and the Origins of Chod. Jerome’s Kathmandu-based company, Base Camp Trek (www.basecamptrek.com), would be handling all the logistics of our journey.

Hello out there! & welcome. My name is Susan Blake Walton. My friends call me Blake, which is a family name from my father's side of the family. My family - bless their hearts - still call me Susie. I prefer Blake by a long shot.

Here is how I looked in 2006 while I was in the process of deconstructing my ego attachment in a yurt at a Buddhist retreat center in Colorado. That's another whole story.

I was born in 1949, officially making me a "Boomer". My Dharma name in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition that I have practiced for many years is "Rinchen Rabsal", which roughly translates as "Luminous Jewel"; hence the genesis of my blog name.

To tell the truth, I have hardly ever even read a blog much less written one. Launching this blog with this first entry, I am struggling with my personal shyness, my Buddhist philosophical concept of non-attachment to self, and my '60s political opinionation that blogs are self-centered and bourgeois, heaven forbid. However, my '70s First Wave feminism -- that the personal is political-- is winning out. As is my need to ruminate, strategize, philosophize, and fantasize about how to integrate Buddhist principles into this oh-so-samsaric life in 2008 in the US of A. (Note: All of this paragraph is what we call "apron wringing" in my writing group; i.e. profusely apologizing in advance, so get on with it already.)

It's not like I haven't lived on the far left periphery of the mainstream for most of my life, being a self-professed artist by age five, a political radical, a non-Christian spiritual seeker, a Lesbian. But deepening my commitment to Budhism by moving in 2005 to a remote and rustic Buddhist retreat center and then going on a month-long pilgrimage to Tibet in 2007, really pulled the rug out from under me.